The room was dim, silence heavy in the air. Across the cracked floor stood two figures, their gazes locked in a deadly standoff. The United States leaned against a wall, grinning arrogantly, his aviators glinting in the light.

"Come on, Red," the US taunted. "You really think you can handle me? I’ve got the dream. What do you have? Bread and bad vibes?" He laughed sharply.

The USSR stood rigid, his cold, gray eyes narrowing. *"Keep talking, Америка," he replied in a low, lethal tone. "Your words will not save you."

The US cracked his knuckles, stepping forward. "Alright, old man. Let’s see what you’ve got."

The first punch came fast—wild and unrestrained. The USSR sidestepped effortlessly, countering with a punishing blow to the US’s ribs.

"You fight like your politics," the USSR said, his tone icy. "Chaotic. Weak."

The US staggered but grinned. "And you hit like your economy—slow and outdated."

Their clash turned brutal. The US fought with reckless energy, throwing punches with unrelenting speed. The USSR absorbed each attack, countering with precise, punishing strikes. The room echoed with blows and heavy breaths.

"Admit it," the US panted, dodging a strike and landing an uppercut. "You’re outmatched."

The USSR wiped blood from his mouth. "Empires built on arrogance always fall."

The fight reached its peak, each refusing to back down. The US, battered but grinning, leaned against a pillar. "Just surrender already."

The USSR’s eyes burned as he stepped forward. As he raised his fist for another strike, a sudden voice cut through the chaos.